


All Dressed Up

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt is Carnival and could there be another reason why Illya would be dressed up as a mariachi musician?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Dressed Up

Illya stared at his reflection and sighed. “I look like I’m ready for Carnival.”

Napoleon sat up from his prone position on the bed. “You’d go to a carnival like that?”

“The Carnival in Brazil, yes.” He shook his head and the ruffles beneath his chin danced. “No one is going to believe I’m a mariachi musician.”

Napoleon came to stand behind Illya, snaking his arms about the man’s waist. “You have convinced people you were Mongol warlord, a third world assassin, and even a Mexican outlaw with a proclivity for Jewish songs. Why is this role different?”

“I don’t know. It’s just…”

Napoleon rubbed his cheek against Illya’s black hair, carefully dyed for the part. “Your hair is intoxicating.”

“Is it?” Illya fussed with his bangs and blinked furiously. “These contacts are killing me, though.”  
Napoleon’s hands traveled to the skintight pants. “These, also, are killing me.”

“You should be wearing them. I don’t think you could get into them.”

“I beg to differ.” Napoleon’s fingers started to follow a familiar path and Illya drew in a breath.

At that moment, both their communicators trilled.

“Channel D is open.”

“Mr. Kuryakin? Are you all right? Your voice sounds strange.”

“It’s the costume, sir. It’s very restrictive.”

“Are you prepared?”

Napoleon grinned and held up a tube of K-Y Jelly.

“Not quite yet, sir. I need at least fifteen minutes more.”

“Well, then get on with it, man!” The communicator went dead.

“Yes, sir.” Illya tossed it onto the bed.

“You heard what the boss said. We should get it on.”

“Get on with it,” Illya corrected, removing the ruffles.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

 

And while the Russian might not have made the best or the most convincing mariachi player ever known, he was certainly the most relaxed.


End file.
